Our long international nightmare is finally over.

Tomorrow I can get back to something approximating normalcy, which means sleeping until 7 a.m., dawdling over a cup or two of java while tut-tutting at the news, enjoying a leisurely breakfast starring the chicken, the pig and the spud, and finally riding a goddamned bicycle before the roads catch fire.

I warmed up to ‘Is Lordship a bit over the past few days, watching him do a spot of work for teammates once The Big Shirt was safely in his closet. And I appreciated his brevity on the final podium: “Cheers, have a safe journey home, don’t get too drunk.” Plus the look he gave the Union Jackoff singing his national anthem mirrored the one I gave her through my iMac.

That said, this Tour will not be one upon which I look fondly from my smelly bed in the nursing home. Miguel Indurain was Wiggo’s model, and damme if his Tour wasn’t as dull as the five Big Mig won.

I met Indurain once, and he was a gent who forgave me my retarded Spanish, but watching him win Tours was like watching a steamroller smooth out the wrinkles in fresh asphalt. Win the time trials, defend in the mountains, repeat until no longer possible.

Likewise the Tours won by He Who Shall Not Be Named. That shit got to be like watching the sun rise. You just knew it was going to happen, and at some point the miraculous becomes routine, and therefore unremarkable.

I like watching the no-hopers who look around, mutter, “Doesn’t anybody want to win this race?” and take off. Claudio Chiappucci, Jacky Durand, Jens Voigt, Thomas Voeckler. Fuck a bunch of watts on the power meter, just stick your snoot in the wind and see what happens.

My model is Randle Patrick McMurphy trying a breakaway in “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” It not only didn’t work, it ended badly.

“But I tried, didn’t I, goddamnit? At least I did that.”

Cadel Evans packed it in today. The last straw was a crook gut — well, that, and a Team Sky support crew that appears to be composed entirely of old Superman robots laid off by the Fortress of Solitude during this interminable economic downturn.

I’ve watched more than a few of these Tour de France thingies over the years, for free and for pay, and this drawn-out foregone conclusion won’t leave even itty-bitty mousie tracks on what remains of my mind come Sunday. It was decided at the first time trial, way back at stage nine, when the song-and-dance team of Bradley Wiggins and Chris Froome tap-stomped the allegedly clean pee out of everyone save Fabian Cancellara. To him, they granted the lowest step on the podium. (“Arise, Sir Fabian. But not too far.”)

Wiggo’ had nearly two minutes on Evans after the time trial, and by the time ‘Is Lordship reaches Paris the defending champ will need to hack into the Very Large Array to see Wiggins and Froome ascending the podium.

A crypto-PETA vet would have put this wobbly mutt down long ago. Yet we in the sporting press must watch it limp two-legged to the Champs-Élysées on Sunday, powerless to bust a cap in its raggedy ass lest it cease sweating money into our beggars’ bowls.

Meanwhile, chapeau to riders like Peter Sagan, Thomas Voeckler, Chris Anker Sorensen, Tejay Van Garderen, Jens Voigt and the others who have pre-empted this tiresome funeral march with their valiant quests for stage wins, team glory or the lesser grails — green, polka dot and white.

Feel free to add your own heroes in comments.